


On His Heels, A Shadow Hounds.

by lividhowl



Category: Shaperaverse - Paul Shapera, The Ballad of Lost Hollow - Shapera, The New Albion Radio Hour: A Dieselpunk Opera - Shapera
Genre: Angst, Blood and Injury, Bromance, Lloyd (Shaperaverse) Has PTSD, Michael and Lloyd's bro relationship, Paul Shapera - Freeform, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sparring, The Shaperaverse, can you tell i dont know fuck shit abt sword fights?, i dont know what to tag this as. fuck, is this even canon compliant at this point, lloyd gets like scraped alksjdlakjsd, please for the love of god fix the fandom tags yall
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-29
Updated: 2020-11-29
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:47:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27783964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lividhowl/pseuds/lividhowl
Summary: Lloyd and Michael head into their regularly scheduled sparring match. Lloyd's PTSD causes a few issues during the fight."Lloyd was anxious and paranoid, jumping at every minor sound and thing that set him off. He was paranoid he was being watched. He was paranoid of someone hopping out at him from the corners of the room to try and throw him off his feet. He was paranoid. He was paranoid.No amount of smoking would shake the feelings from his body. What usually helped take the edge off just didn’t cut it for today. The feelings of being watched and stalked were just too strong for anything to help. Stronger than they had been in a long time."
Comments: 3
Kudos: 6





	On His Heels, A Shadow Hounds.

Lloyd had just woken up on the wrong side of the bed today. Something just felt…. Wrong. Wrong wrong wrong.

_ Wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong _

He was anxious and paranoid, jumping at every minor sound and thing that set him off. He was paranoid he was being watched. He was paranoid of someone hopping out at him from the corners of the room to try and throw him off his feet. He was paranoid. He was paranoid.

No amount of smoking would shake the feelings from his body. What usually helped take the edge off just didn’t cut it for today. The feelings of being watched and stalked were just too strong for anything to help. Stronger than they had been in a _long_ time.

He sat outside the room in the playhouse that was specifically set up for sparring and fighting. Honing their skills, practising hobbies in which weapons were used - it all happened in that room. His cigarette puffed away, the smoke gathering around his eyes and face obscuring his visage. It was a small trick he learned years ago, a way to manipulate the world around him in just one small meaningful way to his assistance. It offered a glimmer of safety to him, just like it had back then.

_ Back then… back when the death cult was hot on his heels- _

While he was deep in his thoughts, Michael had leaned out from the room’s doorway, calling for his sparring partner loudly from within the room right next to where he was leaning up. Lloyd jolted, nearly dropping his cigarette and holding himself close with his other arm. His breath caught as he was startled, which quickly spiralled itself into a series of coughs as he quickly inhaled smoke and sharp air. Michael patted him on the back, giving a sheepish sorry.

_ Being touched didn’t help. _ **_It really didn’t help._ **

“Lloyd? You still up to spar with me inna minute here?” Michael asked, with a hesitant smile.

Lloyd just nodded weakly, slumping back against the wall to catch his breath and reel in his thoughts. He wasn’t going to let this get in the way of his fight. He really wanted to take his mind off things, which he felt was the best to avoid feeling like utter shit. A controlled situation in which he’d come out on top. 

_ A seemingly controlled situation... _

Michael had returned back into the room, leaving Lloyd to right himself. And after a few moments, he was back to presentable, as he always was. He just couldn’t let himself be seen like that for too long, especially not in front of others. He was a leader. And God  _ damn it  _ if he wasn’t stubborn and stoic.

The two talked a little bit as they entered the room, getting ready and suited up for their fight. They laughed and chatted to each other, Lloyd masking his feelings to the other man well enough that he didn’t pry. They had a close relationship, but there were still things Michael didn’t pry into unless Lloyd had brought it up first, or expressed he wanted to speak about it, usually said over a few glasses of whiskey.

However, they had always bonded over sword fighting, especially with their clashing styles of fights. Michael was fast and cunning, bold moves and sharp edges while Lloyd loved the art which he could create with his blade and body. He was graceful and calculated, arching and neverending plots and improvisations galore. It made for hard-won battles, leaving the two utterly breathless as a sword came inches away from a throat, a chest, or any exposed skin in the gaps between armour they donned. The two loved how much they had to think and work in their matches. So, every so often they would have these serious events and practices in which neither would hold back until safewords were uttered- both men stubborn enough that they would only use them if they felt they were in serious, serious trouble.

They had specific armour they picked out for today- the most lightweight, and smallest armour they had, only covering very serious cut points and things that would end up making very large messes if pierced. It was snug and light, easily slipped on. Lloyd moved on to picking out his sword and sheath, pulling out a very old fashioned and intricate, but well-polished blade. Michael picked out a much ‘plainer’ blade compared to Lloyd’s sabre, a dark black handle on stark Damascus steel up its length.

Then the two headed out onto the floor, Michael hitting the starting lever as he walked outside of the armoury. Lloyd took the left side of the marked out circle along the floor, and Michael the right. They readied themselves in their starting positions, and with a timed chime in the room activated by the set switch, they were off to clash with each other.

It really started off with Michael, trying to jab and find an angle that Lloyd was vulnerable at, just taking in how his technique would be today. And like always, Lloyd reciprocated in his own way, carefully ducking and sliding out of the way of Michael’s movements- while they were a style unlike his own, they still posed a large threat to Lloyd, especially if he started to underestimate his opponent and become cocky. The two’s blades clashed, as Lloyd slid Michael’s attack off his own weapon, a small hop back onto the balls of his feet, his right hand stabling himself on the floor.

_ This reminded him of… _

Lloyd took a second to breathe and refocus himself- just barely too long, unfortunately. Michael came barreling forwards, giving the blonde barely enough time to swing the delicate silver up in front of himself to dodge and brace against this attack, as the tip of the dark sword grazed and scratched Lloyd’s cheek upwards. He was thrown backwards off his feet, barely able to keep his head from hitting the training room’s slightly padded floor. He heaved and huffed out, annoyed and growing ever more impatient and pissy from being stepped all over by his partner.

With a quick rock, he was able to propel himself back to his feet, snatching his blade up off the floor with a quick slide to attempt to avoid the incoming opponent, however Michael’s blade just barely caught Lloyd’s upper arm and outer shoulder, slicing deep into the skin. Lloyd let out a strangled cry, as he stumbled into his place, falling to the floor with his right hand against it and onto his knees. His left hand flew to the injury as it dropped his sword, slick blood flowing over his fingertips. Something small was definitely knicked, as blood ran down his arm and soaked into the rigging holding the small armour against him.

All Lloyd could hear was the rushing of his blood in his ears, a distant static clouding his thoughts and vision. He could feel the blood running down his hands as he held wounds inflicted by members of the death cult, as he desperately clamoured down the streets to get to his boyfriend’s apartment. Thought after thought and fleeting memories of those nights as he was hunted and injured came up one after another in droves, as his fingers flexed hard against his sword’s handle instinctively, as the thoughts smeared in blood and fear started to bloom and grow in his mind.

_ He wasn’t going to let that happen to himself **ever** again. _

_ Lloyd was stronger than he was then- he was much, **much** stronger now. In more ways than most thought was even possible. _

So when he heard someone coming up right behind him, Lloyd swung his weapon as hard as he could as he spun, starting to propel himself up to his feet from his position on the floor under them, connecting his sword into his attacker’s chest. A dull thud rang out as it clattered against the vital armour. The attacker let out a gasp of surprise from the first hit, as he brought his weapon up just as fast as Lloyd brought his sword down from an arch, barely being blocked by cold Damascus steel inches away from the join between the man’s shoulder and neck. Lloyd was planning every single move in his head seconds ahead of when he’d execute it, careful to not waste any valuable seconds seemingly fighting for his life.

All he knew was he needed to take this person down by any means necessary. He was on his feet now, close-quarters with this person and forcing the opponent backwards, pulling him off his feet with his own as the man stumbled backwards before eventually, he hit the floor. Lloyd carried forwards, as the man started to mutter and talk- saying something that was lost to Lloyd’s ears, unable to process and take in any of the information he said. The dark-clad man had his arm raised in a feeble attempt to block off any of Lloyd’s attacks if he swung or grabbed at him, as he scooted backwards on his rear and feet, the blonde’s weapon raised in a way that was ready to deal a blow to something vital at any moment if he had just dared to make one wrong move. Lloyd noticed the man under him was yelling louder and louder through his own hazy consciousness, and Lloyd paused for just a moment.

And he finally took in what Michael was trying to say- It was his safeword.

“ _ Disengage _ ! Fuckin’ cool it dude, fuck!  _ Disengage _ !” Michael shouted, as he huffed and let his weapon fall to the ground, resting back against the floor. Lloyd just took a moment, took in his surroundings just a bit more and let out a breath, his own weapon clattering to the floor as his fingers unfurled and he dipped in and out of his dazed state. 

_ He wasn’t… There. This wasn’t there. It was still **wrong** , but he wasn’t there. _

“Christ, it was like you were really trying to fuck me up or something man-!” Michael laughed, as he sat back up after resting a moment. He looked up to his sparring partner, expecting a laugh or a snide comment but all he was left with was Lloyd’s blank gaze. He looked to the still bleeding gash on his friend’s arm and furrowed his brow. “We should take care of that now man, I know we get rough but jeez, that seems kinda. Bad.”

After a few moments of delay, Lloyd looked down to him, then after another session of a lingering, disinterested stare, he looked to the gash in his arm. Blood still seeped from the wound, only slightly slowed by the time that had passed. Michael knew that same stare, the delay and stutter in Lloyd’s processing a telltale sign that he really was out of it for one reason or another. He slowly, and carefully stood up, as Lloyd brought his left hand back up to his shoulder, smearing crimson blood against his fingertips and slightly pressing into the wound. Michael carefully approached Lloyd, getting a good look at the damage dealt to his arm. The blonde just stared at the blood on his hand quietly, grimacing from the wound being disturbed by his fingers.

“Hey, Lloyd. We should. Go get medical help with that, ykno?” Michael offered, carefully. Lloyd looked up into no particular place into the room, nodding after taking in what he was saying. Michael knew he was going to get the other’s help with more than just the wound his friend had, but in case Lloyd had his own reservations as he usually did about getting help and being seen by the others in such disarray, he made no comments further. He just began to walk Lloyd out of the sparring room back into the armoury room. He helped his partner take off the small plates of armour around him, setting both their weapons down on the table to be cleaned before being put back in their places.

Once that was set, Michael gave a heads up to Raven that he was taking his boyfriend down to the medical bay so he could meet the two there, as the pair trailed down the hallway off to medical together. Michael kept a close eye on the slightly stumbling blonde, however, making sure he didn’t stray off or wander straight into anything, but giving him enough space to give him that sense of independence. Despite the occasional attempts at trying to kill him, Lloyd wasn’t a bad person- and they were still very, very close with one another. Which is why Michael decided to drag him off to medical with him, instead of letting him hole up in his room to deal with this alone.

**Author's Note:**

> Fuck dude, I don't know shit abt sword fighting and it SHOWS hard-
> 
> Anyways, PTSD Lloyd fic because I like to project and he's still definitely fucked up from the death cult. The name of chapters and the fic itself is subject to change if something comes along that I like better, but for now, it's alright.
> 
> Next chapter will probably focus more heavily on the medical bay scenes and Raven will show up to comfort his boyfriend.


End file.
